Page 125 of All of Me

Will:

Yeah, congrats on surviving another year of pretending you know what you’re doing.

I shake my head, pushing open the truck door. The cold morning air bites at my skin as I step out, boots crunching against the gravel. Sunlight filters through the steel framing of the unfinished building, casting long shadows across the site.

Inside the mechanical room, the familiar scent of metal, oil, and cut pipe lingers in the air. I don’t even have to look up to know Will’s already here. His steel-toe boots are propped against the wall, his chair tilted back at a dangerous angle as he scrolls through his phone, looking way too comfortable for someone who’s technically on the clock.

“You’re really going to roast me in the group chat when we’re sitting in the same room?” I call out, setting my thermos on the workbench with a dull thud.

Will doesn’t even look up, his thumbs still moving across the screen. “Of course I am,” he replies easily. “It’s more fun this way.”

My phone buzzes again.

Hunter:

We should get him a cane. Or one of those pill organizers.

Vince:

Or a hearing aid. Can you even hear this notification, Owen?

I shake my head, grinning as I type back.

Me:

Real original, guys. I’m only 33, not 73.

Will:

Could’ve fooled me.

“Asshole,” I mutter, grabbing a dirty rag from the workbench and launching it at his head.

Will’s reflexes are quick—he ducks just in time, and the rag smacks harmlessly against the cinder block wall before flopping to the floor. He grins, smug as ever. “You’re gonna have to work on your aim if you’re gonna make it to forty, old man. Otherwise, these young bucks are going to take you out.”

“You’re only a year younger than me, dickhead,” I shoot back, shaking my head as I reach for my tool belt.

“Yeah, but it’s a good year,” he taunts, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. He stands, stretching his arms overhead before grabbing a wrench from the toolbag beside his chair. “What’s on the agenda today?”

I gesture toward the half-assembled piping near the back of the room. “We need to get the return lines run and strapped in before lunch.”

Will nods, rolling his shoulders before heading toward the pipes. I follow, grabbing a tape measure as I crouch beside him. We work in silence for a while, the only sounds are the hum of drills and the occasional clang of metal against concrete.

Just as I finish securing a clamp, my phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not the guys.

My Wife:

Happy birthday, handsome.

Before I can even type back, another message comes through. This one is a picture.

I glance up to make sure Will’s still busy, then open it.

Heat licks up my spine.

Callie—sprawled across our bed, my blanket barely covering her. Her bare legs are tangled in the sheets, smooth thighs on full display. The deep red lace of her panties peeks out from beneath the fabric, and her tank top is loose enough that I can tell she’s not wearing a bra. Her hair is messy, spread out on my pillow like she’s been rolling around, and the way she’s biting her lip?

Fuck.

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